


I Can't Sleep (I'll Dream About It)

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not entirely compliant to homecoming but it's close, PTSD, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Tags and relationships and warnings may be updated if necessary, Whump! Peter, light fluff, no mention of iw or endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-04-05 05:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter Parker was fine. Yes, he had a building dropped on him. Yes, he had severe panic attacks. Yes, he had nightmares. Yes, he thought about hurting himself. But he was fine.Or,That cliche fic where it's after the events of Homecoming and Peter is struggling to cope.Or,that one where the author is still sad about endgame, and needed some irondad and spiderson.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> I kinda swore to myself that I wouldn't start writing for another fandom; but, here we are. Anyways, welcome to my fic! It should be about 3 chapters long, and I'm super excited for everybody to read it! I love fics like this, and I thought I'd add my awfully written one to the mix.  
> My tumblr is panic---princess.tumblr.com if you ever want to chat, or ask me questions!  
> Enjoy! 
> 
> Warning: All the tags mentioned will be relevant at some point, but the warnings for this chapter are: violence, negative self-talk, and talk of death.

       When Peter Parker had been four years old, his aunt and uncle had taken him to the beach, citing that they all needed a “family vacation, away from the city.” he remembers walking onto the sand for the first time, bright and hot under his unsteady feet. Clad in red and blue swim trunks, with a small purple pail and sunshine yellow shovel duo, one of the cheaply made ones from the CVS next to the beach, was tightly curled into his tiny fist. First, he tried to build a sandcastle, with four tall towers, and a moat to keep out unexpected guests, a couple of broken sea shells pushed into the walls,  but he quickly got bored as the tide would wash it away like clockwork. Then, he resorted to filling up his pail of sand, packing it tightly into the bottom, and rotating the pail so that the sand would drop onto his head, endlessly entertained by the new sensation he felt as the cool sand would pour over him. At one point, he decided to take a new direction: by dumping the pail of wet sand directly onto his face-- the wet sand, an earlier sign of comfort, burned as he attempted to blink the mess out of his eyes. One small fist curled around his eyes in an attempt to rub it out as May and Ben ran towards him with identical looks of concern as they lifted him up and helped him remove the last of the sand from his eyes, before walking him back to the hotel for a much-needed nap. Peter had cried about it for days, and for years, he treated any sort of sand with a certain type of caution.

       Peter remembered that experience now, with a mixture of nostalgia and pain as he thought back. As the chunks of the building started to fall around him, he tried to watch through teary eyes as the Vulture escaped, long metal wings expanding gracefully as he took off, headed to the Avengers plane, without a single look cast back at the teenage boy he left to die.  Then, he was suddenly, violently, pinned to the ground by debris as the warehouse continued to fall around him. The initial pressure was a shock to his system, as he felt his torso constrict painfully as he was pushed into the ground. Another piece fell on top of him, pinning his legs and lower back to the ground. 

       What remained of the room was incredibly dusty as it’s remains smashed down around him. Peter heard the pieces fall before they did, smothering his neck, chest, and arms under its weight. He couldn’t move anything from the neck down, but he still gave his surroundings a cursory glance in hopes that he would spot something that would help him out. But, in the midst of all the dust and smoke, it was impossible for Peter to see anything. In an attempt to ground himself, he took a shaky breath, but he was met only with a sharp pain in his lungs as oxygen continued to escape him. He closed his eyes slowly, trying to ignore the building that was literally crushing him. Once again, he tried to take another shaky breath with no luck, his lungs were crushed too tightly to the ground to actually fill with oxygen and the debris made it even harder for him to focus. His chest constricted again as he tried to take yet another shaky breath-- only to have a short sob exit instead. He placed his forehead to the cool, wet, cement in an attempt to make himself more comfortable, as his eyes, nose, and mouth filled with the remains of the warehouse around him. Instinctually, his eyes filled with tears as his body fought back against the sudden invasion, as his small form racked with breathless sobs. 

       When he would later retell the story to Ned, Peter would exaggerate the story just a tiny bit, defending his choices to himself by claiming that he was just making the story more interesting, making himself out to be more of a hero. He made a point to make it clear that he was not scared. He would spin the story in such a way that it seemed as though he did not doubt himself, that lifting a building off of himself was a simple task. He did this to mask his real feelings, his real emotions. But truthfully, when Peter first felt that initial hit as he fell to the ground, he did not feel brave. At that moment, Peter Parker was convinced that he was going to die. Cold, alone, scared, and, abandoned. As it got harder to breathe, his thoughts felt began to feel farther away from him; briefly, he wondered how long it would take for them to find his body. Days? Weeks? He was suddenly aware that he had no way of letting anybody know where he was. As he tried to breathe again, to no avail, he couldn’t help but think that this must be the worst way to die, conscious of the whole thing, as his ribs starting to crack under the pressure of the roof, and choking on dust and broken metal. His mouth was dry and full of debris. Bitterly, he thought that he must’ve looked like some hero: breathless sobs escape impossibly dry lips as he struggled to breathe, as his body started to go limp, exhausted from attempting to wriggle his way out of his own grave.  He thought of May, Ned, Liz, and MJ-- how they would react when he didn’t return to the homecoming dance. It was impossible not to think about their lives without him, he wondered how they would react when the police found his body, or who would come to the funeral? Would everything change when they learned that he was Spider-Man? Lastly, he thought of Mr. Stark, and couldn’t help but find himself curious about his mentor’s reaction, would he be sad? Disappointed in Peter? Upset with himself? He wondered if he would have any reaction at all, would any of them? Gasping, Peter tried again to find oxygen as he took a strangled breath. Were his attempts to breath were just delaying the inevitable? He found himself reviewing his life, looking back onto his own memories. As he was jostled back to the present by a piece of shifting debris, one thought was incredibly clear to him: clearly, he was nothing without the suit after all. He laid flat and closed his eyes to protect them further, as he resigned himself to wait-- for what he wasn’t sure. 

       But then he heard it above him, the sound of the Vulture’s wings as we flew high above Peter’s head, whispering into his headset, as Peter strained to look up at him, fluttering just out of view. It was then that Peter realized: it had to be him. He was the only person who knew the Vulture’s plans. He was the only person who could stop him. He  _ had _ to stop him. It wasn’t about “saving the day” or “being a hero.” Peter didn’t care about that. It was about stopping his neighborhood from being destroyed.  It was about protecting his friends and family, and all the other people who were just trying to live their lives. It occurred to him so suddenly, and he cursed himself for thinking that he would give up so easily: he couldn’t die, he still had things to do.  Despite the lack of oxygen, Peter’s brain started to move a million miles a minute, he needed a plan, and he needed one quick. Pulling in as much oxygen as he could, Peter looked down at his mask, half submerged in a puddle of dirty water. He did his best to place his hands underneath him as he gave a first attempt towards pushing himself upwards. It didn’t work right away; instead, his arms gave out beneath him. He struggled upwards again, his arms pressed into the dirt, with his arms shaking, he fell back into the earth, broken glass cutting into the exposed skin on his hands. Peter glanced back at the mask in the puddle in front of him, and as he stared into the goggles of his first mask, he remembered  _ why _ . In the mask, he could see the body of his Uncle Ben, bloody and helpless in the alley outside his home. He saw the look on Liz’s face as he lifted her up out of the elevator shaft in Washington DC. He saw the countless faces of people he had helped cross the street or had given directions to, or saved from a mugging or worse. Queens needed him. He stared into the blank eyes of the mask, catching his own reflection in the water, and he saw himself for the first time: he saw himself when he got his powers, he saw himself swinging through New York, and he saw himself then: bruised and filthy but not. Giving. Up. Peter placed his arms beneath himself as he pushed upwards,

 

“come on Spider-Man”

 

he whispered, breathless. At first, the rubble did not move from its place atop him, but he gave another huff and thought of Queens,

 

“come on Spider-Man.”

 

       He pushed again, shifting some of the rubble that was at the very top.Tiny pieces started to roll off, followed by larger ones. He could imagine his escape: like a rock slide or an avalanche, the metal, and concrete that had kept Peter captive was starting snowball off of him.  He watched as what was left of the warehouse started to shift above him. A third push and the first large piece of debris fell down and off of his body. Peter felt himself let out a breath he hadn’t known that he was holding in, as that piece of debris (and, more honestly: Peter’s ability to move it) was the reminder Peter needed: he was  _ not _ going to die today. He was  _ not _ going to die alone, he was  _ not _ going to die cold and abandoned. He was Spider-Man, after all. 

       After a couple more shoves, Peter had successfully shifted the rest of the debris in such a way that he was able to crawl out of it. As he looked up into the starless night sky, he watched a couple of planes fly overhead, completely unaware of the scene below them.  He took a couple of labored breaths as he pushed himself to his feet, bloody hands pressed into his ripped sweatsuit-clad thighs. He coughed, and then, without any sort of warning, he immediately began to sob as the air started to fill his lungs again, in what was an experience that he could only describe as pure relief. Once he had gathered his thoughts a little bit, and his sobbing had to start to subside into impossibly deep breaths,  he reached down, ignoring the sharp pain he felt along his ribs as he did so, to pick his mask up out of the dirty puddle. Although it was too wet to be worn, and probably torn beyond repair anyway, he couldn’t part with it just yet: it was a part of him. He shoved the soaking mask into his back pocket and took his first step in the direction he thought the Vulture had headed. Each step hurt a little more, and even though he hadn’t stopped to assess his injuries through blurry eyes, it was astoundingly clear to Peter that each step jostled his bruised and broken body just a little bit more, but Peter’s broken bones and puncture wounds were the least of his worries. 

       The battle that occurred when he finally reached the Vulture passed in a blur. Peter remembers clinging to a plane as he was lifted higher and higher in the air, and then he briefly remembers the battle that took place as the plane started to crash, the wind of the plane whipped around his face as he struggled to keep his balance, and the Vulture was absolutely ruthless, his goal was no longer to make sure Peter couldn’t stop him; he didn’t want Peter to survive point blank. As the plane began to crash, he shot as many webs as he could, in an attempt to give himself control of the plane. It didn’t work completely, but he still found himself able to turn the plane away from the amusement park and towards the beach. He almost passed out when his feet first touched the ground, He arms felt stretched and disconnected from his body, and his chest burned. As he stood up from the wreckage, his vision was once again clouded with debris, dust, and smoke, and before he could think about what to do next, he was leaning over himself, one hand pressed to one of the many crates that now littered the beach, and he committed blood and bile over the sands. His mind was foggy as he fought his way through what was left of the plane, somewhere in the back of his mind, he concluded that he had to find the Vulture, a voice telling him that it wasn’t right to leave him there to die, even if the Vulture would’ve left him. He couldn’t breathe and the smoke and fire started to burn brighter and heavier, but he continued to search the beach, he couldn’t just leave the Vulture alone. After what felt like hours of searching, feeling the edges of suit start to burn, He found the man,   face down in the sand. Peter hoisted him up over his shoulders and was able to quickly confirm that the man was still breathing. He sat him down against a pile of crates, in an obvious location so he wouldn’t be missed, but far enough away from the fire that he wouldn’t die. As he heard sirens start to approach the beach, Peter knew immediately that he didn’t want to anywhere near the scene of the crime, so he quickly (but tightly) webbed the Vulture where he was, and scrawled a note a piece of cardboard for whatever people would find him. With a sigh, he realized how low on web fluid he was as he started to walk away from the scene. His steps were slow, and each one sent a burn from the bottom of his feet and crawled up into his head. He only had one goal: get back home. 

       He didn’t quite meet his goal; instead, he made it to an alley a couple of hundred yards away before he collapsed against a dumpster. His whole body ached, and he felt as though he had just been crushed by a building, engaged in combat with a giant man in a wingsuit on top of a plane, fell from thousands of feet up, crashed a plane, and walked through fire. Although he wasn’t a doctor, Peter could tell that at least a couple of his ribs were broken, and his shoulders felt like they weren’t… quite right.  He could still feel a couple of puncture wounds littering his body, still leaking blood, and he couldn’t even begin to count the number of bruises he could feel across his flesh. He watched the scene on the beach carefully, completely prepared to move if anyone started to come near him, as the police and fire department arrived first; but then, he watched as a familiar black car pulled up to the scene. As Happy began to get out of the car and head to the scene, muttering into a headset, no doubt to a very angry Mr. Stark. Peter watched as a policeman approached Happy, and showed him the piece of cardboard next to the Vulture. Happy looked at it; shocked, before looking up at the Vulture, who had woken up, but was still webbed in his current position. Upon seeing that,  Peter got up from the alley he was in, and finally started to head back home, walking when he could, but mostly holding onto the last of his web fluid to jump from building to building, completely unmasked. 

       When Peter finally slid back through his window, forty minutes later, he first sent a quick text to Ned, to inform him that he hadn’t died. Next, he texted May, saying that he was home from Homecoming and that yes, it had been lots of fun. That one was definitely a lie, but he had no reason to worry his aunt. He limped to the bathroom across the hallway, with a pair of pajamas in one hand. Sitting down on the edge of his bathtub with a washcloth,  he used water from the sink and antiseptic to start to clean off the majority of his wounds, he wasn’t worried about healing them, but he wanted to make sure that they weren’t going to get infected. Once he had cleaned off as many wounds as he could reach, he stripped out the shredded remains of his suit and turned on the shower to clean off the rest of the blood. As he waited for the water to warm up, Peter looked into the mirror and flinched at the sight of the dirt and blood caking his face; sighing, he stepped into the shower and he went as quick as he could, which given his current condition, was pretty slow. He wrapped himself in a towel and turned the water off, before donning the softest and loosest pair of pajamas he could find. He wandered back into his bedroom, his brain felt distant as it reminded him that he would be mostly healed in the morning. He shut his bedroom window and pulled the covers over his body. Exhausted, he fell asleep before his head hit the pillow, the sounds of the city sounded like they were a million miles away as he fell into a nightmare induced slumber, completely unaware of the climbing number of missed calls from Happy. 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter, May, and Tony all deal with the events of the last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay, Hello! I never meant for this to take almost two months to upload but there's good news and bad news. 
> 
> Good news: I'm much happier with this chapter than I am with chapter I.
> 
> Bad news: I couldn't get the flow I wanted in this chapter, so I needed to add a 4th chapter to my plan. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope everybody's having a great day/night and as always, I'm available at Panic---Princess.tumblr.com!

The news was already starting to roll in by the time that Peter Parker woke up the next morning ,  but he didn’t notice or care. He began to rub the sleep from his eyes, his shoulder burning with the phantom of the last night. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his side, he pushed himself up until he was leaning back against his pillow.  He blinked and glanced around his room. His homemade suit was shoved halfway under his bed in a ridiculous attempt to hide it, and his window screen was still wide open, the smell of the city intercepting the smell of fire, smoke, and mold that still permeated the air around Peter. The night before came rushing back to him. 

 

_ Falling.  _

 

The building was  _ falling. _

 

_ And then… _

 

And then he was crushed underneath it. 

 

_ The crash.  _

 

The plane had crashed.

 

And Peter…

 

_ Peter had barely got home.  _

 

He pushed his blankets off himself and started towards his door, ignoring the screaming of his joints, and the light crack he heard in his shoulders as he pushed it wide open. He stumbled slightly as his feet hit the rug in front of his door. The coffee pot was beeping and Peter could hear a news report coming from the living room but he ignored it, unable to focus on anything but his unsteady steps into the kitchen.

 

 He found Aunt May sitting on the couch, the New York Times spread across their coffee table in three messy; but, distinct groups: comics and technology (Peter’s). The front page and entertainment (May’s). Sports and weather (Ben’s). (They never stopped separating their newspaper, and Peter figured that they never would). 

 

He pulled a mug off of the shelf and made his “coffee” (really, it was mostly sugar and cream. MJ was convinced the pure sweetness was going to kill him.) (Mr. Stark had said something similar when he accidentally took a sip of Peter’s coffee and not his own during a lab day). 

_ Mr. Stark.  _

 

Peter wondered if he was mad. Or if he knew at all. 

 

He sat down to the left of May, in front of his pile of newspaper. He didn’t read it just yet, eyes trained inside his cup of coffee as scenes of the night before flashed in his cup. 

 

_ Come on, Spider-man.  _

“PETER.” He flinched, splashes of coffee falling onto the floor as he wrenched his gaze upwards towards his aunt, who was looking at him, eyes filled with concern. 

 

“I've been calling your name for the last minute, is everything okay?” she tilted her head questioningly, but it was gentle all the same. Peter figured it was the same facial expression she used with patients- firm, but trusting. 

 

“Sorry, I’m just really tired.” He watched her gaze softened as a smile began to tug at the corners of her lips. 

 

“I figured, you had a late night last night.” 

 

For a moment, he panicked,  _ How  _ did she know? He felt his gaze go wide, had she found out? His mind was moving at a million miles a minute, each thought consumed with a panic alarm blaring SHEKNOWSSHEKNOWSSHEKNOWS and then-- 

 

“Was the dance fun?” 

 

It was as if his mind had been hit by a fire hose, the dance, of course, she was talking about the dance. 

 

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun, I don’t think dances are really my thing though.” He gave a nervous chuckle at the end as Aunt May nodded sympathetically. 

 

“Your uncle was never a fan of dances either.” She placed a hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles as Peter began to visibility relax-- she had that effect. 

 

Just as he began to relax into her touch, the news report began to blare again. 

 

“We are back with an update on the arrest on Adrian Toomes.” 

 

Peter’s line of sight immediately jerked towards the TV in front of him, as the picture changed from the newsroom to a photo of the Vulture being arrested, handcuffed, with the plane wreckage behind him, the fire that Pete remembered was just a smoking backdrop to the investigation that was waging around it.  

Peter stared at the sight, completely open-mouthed, he barely processed the words that were coming out of the newscaster's mouth. 

 

“...Adrian Toomes was arrested last night around midnight...”  

 

_ The beach was smoking as the fire spread around him.  _

 

“...It was thanks to Spider-Man...” 

 

_ He was suffocating on the air again, smoke filling his lungs.  _

 

“...The contents of the plane are unknown...” 

 

_ He tried to walk out of the fire but he couldn’t. Everywhere he looked, it was around him, deeper and brighter and hotter than ever.  _

 

Somewhere deep in his mind, he recognized that he wasn’t on the beach anymore, that he was sitting on the couch with his aunt, and without thinking, that part of his mind took over. It pushed him up off the couch and it said: “I need to go call Ned.” It grabbed his cup of cooled coffee and it tumbled him into his bedroom. It shut the door, and It threw him back onto his bed. 

 

The rest of his mind; however, was still on the beach, the fire engulfing his legs, and then his arms, and it burned. It burned and then suddenly he wasn’t on the beach anymore, he was back in the warehouse, trapped under the roof, he couldn’t breathe but he had no idea what he was choking on. 

 

His hand wrapped around his wrist and he dug his nails deep into his skin until the warehouse went away. He dug deeper and the smell of rust and mold began to evaporate, he felt the skin under his nails break as he began to breathe again. He gasped as his eyes flickered open. He was on his bed, he was safe. He was at home. His body still ached and his left wrist was bleeding, but he was  _ fine.  _

 

The news had just started to roll in by the time May Parker got home from her graveyard shift at the hospital, and she stared at the screen in shock and horror. She had been delayed, the bus system had been shut down while there was an ongoing police investigation in the area.

 

Everybody knew that something happened on the beach, the smoke visible from the bus station where she was now, tapping her foot anxiously against the pavement. She just wanted to get home. 

 

Once she got finally got on the bus, time seemed to move much too slowly for her liking, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong. Peter had texted her when he got home, but apparently, he had gone to bed, because he wasn’t responding anymore. 

 

May knew that something was up, at least, she was subconsciously aware. The worry sloshed around in her brain as she hurried into her building, up to the stairs (the elevator was broken, again.) and into the dark apartment. 

 

She took a cursory look around, nothing wrong. She took careful steps down the hallway, making sure she didn’t wake Peter. His door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open, the door creaks ever so slightly, moving as though it was in slow motion. She peeked her head in the door and her eyes immediately landed on Peter, who was sound asleep, bathed in the bluish glow of the city. She sighed a breath of relief (but she still couldn’t pin why she had been so worried). 

 

Slinking into her bedroom, she quickly changed into her pajamas and slid into the unmade half of the bed, turning her back to the decorative pillows that had taken over the space that had once belonged to Ben. 

 

When her feet hit the ground the next morning, everything felt normal. It was nine, a normal wake up time, the sounds of the city were normal, and the sun was peeking out ever so slightly over the gray of the city-- completely normal; and yet, it felt off. 

 

As she walked into the kitchen, she noted the faint scent of fire in the hallway, but quickly attributed it to the open window. She made a pot of coffee, grabbed the newspaper from outside the front door, sat down on the couch and watched the first headlines of the day come in while she separated the newspaper into the same three piles it had been separated into for years. Everything was completely normal. 

 

And then it wasn’t. 

 

Adrian Toomes was on the news. 

 

And he had been arrested. 

 

_ By Spider-Man?? _

 

It was then that May realized that the day was in fact, not normal at all. 

  
  


The news hadn’t even heard about the story when Tony Stark got a very angry call from Happy, and for the first time in his life, he was absolutely speechless. 

 

“The Spider-Kid did  _ what _ ?” 

 

“He uh...  he crashed the plane, boss.” The line was silent. 

 

“And why, Happy, would he have crashed a plane?” Tony could barely believe what he was hearing. It had been a completely normal night, he had been down in his lab, tinkering with nothing in particular, when he had been called by a very shocked, and very confused Happy Hogan. 

 

“Well, it seems like this guy, some small-time arms dealer, was robbing it.” 

 

“And the kid knew that?” Tony set down a screwdriver and collapsed back into the chair behind him, one hand propping up his head, the other rubbed his temples. 

“Well, I guess he must’ve.” 

 

Tony Stark was, absolutely and completely, speechless. 

 

“They’re arresting the guy responsible but, I haven’t seen the kid yet.” 

 

As Happy’s last sentence registered in Tony’s mind, he felt his words rush back to him all at once, knocking the wind out of his chest with the  _ sheer magnitude _ of questions he had. 

 

“So you’re telling me… Peter crashes a plane. A plane! The beach catches on fire, and you haven’t heard from him?” 

 

“No, boss, I’m afraid not. Do you want me to find him?” 

 

“No, I just want you to leave a possibly incredibly injured fifteen-year-old superhero alone.” 

 

The line was silent. 

 

“OF COURSE, I want you to FIND him.” 

 

“Will do.” 

 

And then the line went dead. 

 

Two in the morning passed, and Peter had not answered any of Happy’s calls. 

Tony decided it was time to take matters into his own hands as he paced around his work station. 

By the time four in the morning had passed, Tony had left Peter eighteen voice messages, called him almost thirty times, and had texted him probably double that amount.

 

By six in the morning, Tony decided that he really hated being ignored. 

 

By Eight in the morning, Tony was about to suit up and go and find the kid himself, but before he could do that, Pepper had burst into the lab, looking half asleep. 

 

“What does CNN mean by ‘Plane  Owned by Stark Industries Crashes on New York Beach?” Tony opened his mouth to answer, but before he could continue, 

 

“And what the hell do you want me to tell all the reporters outside?” 

 

At 4:26 PM, Peter finally returned one of Tony’s phone calls. Since the outside world had caught wind of the plane crash the night before, the media was having an absolute field day, and Tony had to sign off on multiple statements and had held a press conference. 

 

And so, when Tony finally returned to his kitchen at 4:25 PM, he was looking forward to sitting down, grabbing some late lunch, and relaxing for the first time all day; and then, his phone rang. 

He didn’t even look as he pushed “accept” and set the phone to speaker while he pulled out everything he needed to make the most epic ham sandwich of all time. 

 

“This is Tony.” He spread the mayo on one side of the bread, rolling his eyes upon realizing that Pepper had once again bought whole wheat. 

 

“Mr. Stark? It’s Peter, I uh, noticed that you called me and uhhh… I… I wanted to apologize for crashing your plane.” 

 

Tony dropped the piece of bread he was holding. 

 

“Kid,” Tony sighed as he subconsciously moved towards his phone, “I don’t care about the plane.” 

 

“Oh.” Was Peter’s reply. He sounded exhausted. 

 

“I called because I was worried about you.” Peter was quiet for a few moments, and for a second, Tony assumed he might’ve lost him. 

 

“You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Stark!” A fake chirpiness invaded Peter’s tone, but Tony could still hear his sheer exhaustion, “I’m all good! Nothing that couldn’t be fixed while I slept!” Tony tried not to sigh too loudly, but from the shuffling he heard on the other line, he could tell Peter heard. 

 

“I’m having Happy pick you up.” 

 

“Um… sorry-- What?” Whatever Peter had been anticipating, it clearly had not been that. 

 

“A lot of things have happened, Pete, and I think it might be easier to talk about them when we’re not on the phone.” He heard a quiet “lemme check with May really quick.” Before he could make out the sound of a door opening and a vague conversation. 

 

“Can I go over to Ned’s house?” 

 

Tony couldn’t quite make out her answer. 

 

“Thanks, May! You’re the best.” 

 

Peter’s voice returned to the phone as Tony heard him close a door. 

“Tell Happy I can uh… meet him out front.” 

 

“Will do kid. See you soon.” And before Peter could respond, Tony hung up, sending Happy a quick message. 

 

“Go get the kid. He’s at home.” 

 

“Will do.” 

 

“And make it fast.” 

 

Peter met Tony in the living room on one of the top floors of the tower. The media could still be seen clamoring around the main entrance of the building, but as the night got darker they began to disperse. 

 

Tony sat across from Peter at the table, steaming cups of hot chocolate in front of both of them as the sense of faux calm permeated around the room. 

 

If Peter was bad at hiding his exhaustion over the phone, he was absolute shit at hiding it in person. 

 

Despite the fact that he had no visible injuries to prove that he had recently gotten into a fist fight with a man in a metal bird costume and crashed a plane, it was clear that Peter had taken a beating.  the skin under his bloodshot eyes was dark and puffy, and the skin on parts of his neck and arms was yellowish, signaling the presence of old bruises. 

 

Tony wasn’t good at comforting completely normal adults, let alone children, let alone enhanced children, and so instead of comforting, he just stared. 

 

Peter broke the silence first. 

 

“I really am super sorry about your plane.” his voice was smaller than Tony had ever heard it is as he stared into his mug. Tony resisted the urge to sigh, replaying the conversation he had with Pepper earlier. 

 

_ “Tony, you can’t seem disappointed in him.” _

 

_ “But Pep--” _

_ “Seriously, you have to do your best to act like everything is okay. Especially if you want him to open up to you.”  _

 

_ Past Tony sighed loudly.  _

_ “Okay.” _

 

“Seriously kid, don’t worry about the plane. It wasn’t even one of the very good ones.” That was a big lie, but judging by the way Peter’s shoulders slowly loosened, it was an acceptable one. 

 

“But we have more important matters to address: are you okay?” 

 

Peter didn’t hide his sigh, “yes, Mr. Stark, I’m doing just fine. Advanced healing, ya’ know?” Tony nodded. 

 

“How did you know?” Peter looked up, head cocked in confusion. 

 

“Like, how did you know about Toomes?” Peter took a swig of hot chocolate like it was whiskey, and it was a long few moments before he answered. 

 

“I was already trailing him a little bit, remember? I told you about him that night after you pulled me out of that lake?” 

 

Of course. Tony thought. Of course. 

 

“And uh… I was going to leave it alone, really!” Peter held up his hands defensively, 

 

“But then I was going to homecoming with this girl I really liked, her name’s Liz. Anyways, I went over to her house so that we could go to the dance and it turned out her DAD was Toomes, which was super whacky. And while we were in the car, he figured out that I was Spider-Man and basically once Liz left the car he totally threatened me. And so I just HAD to stop him because it was pretty obvious he was going to do something super bad, so I followed him…” 

 

Peter faltered, suddenly, violently. There was no way he could tell Mr. Stark about the building-- what would he think? 

 

“And it took me a little while to catch up to him because he had a car and I was on foot, ya’ know? So by the time I found him, the plane was taking off. So I webbed myself onto the plane and we fought, which was awkward, but in the process of fighting, his wingsuit sorta damaged the plane, so it was starting to crash and I had to use my webs to  try and steer it, and the beach seemed like a good place. So I crashed it there, and I was all good!” 

 

Peter took another sip of hot chocolate to hide his expression, he gave a good enough version of the story; after all, he had hit all the important parts-- Mr. Stark didn’t need to know about the warehouse or the fire or the way Peter had thought about him and called for help while he thought he was dying.  

 

But even with the edited version presented, Mr. Stark’s expression was that of pure horror. 

For a moment after Peter finished, nobody said anything. 

 

“I shouldn’t have taken your suit.” Was the first thing Tony said. 

 

It was the closest thing he had to an apology. 

 

Peter understood that. 

 

“It’s okay. You were just doing what you thought was best.”

 

Tony nodded, a thousand thoughts died in his throat as he gazed at Peter. (“Kid, I’m sorry.” “I was wrong.” “I didn’t mean to act like my father.” “I should’ve listened to you sooner.”)  

 

“Come over on Wednesday, Happy will pick you up directly from school. We can add some upgrades from your suit and then you can have it back.” Peter’s eyes were shining as he muttered a quite, disbelieving “thank you.”

 

This was Tony’s way of saying “I’ll fix this.” 

 

Peter understood that. 

 

Tony looked at Peter, almost bouncing in his seat, the hand wrapped around his hot chocolate was tapping against the ceramic. He felt  _ something _ rise in this chest, a mixture of pride and worry, he thought. 

 

He pushed it back down. 

 

“Now get going, I’m sure your aunt wants you back from Ned’s.” 

 

Peter nodded as he stood up, “Thanks Mr. Stark! I’ll see you Wednesday!” 

 

Tony nodded, and he watched from the kitchen as Peter headed towards the elevator, the same feeling from before rising as he did so. 

 

That feeling seemed like something to unpack another day. 


End file.
